


Pumpkin to Talk About

by adrianna_m_scovill



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Halloween, Pumpkins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 18:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16164626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrianna_m_scovill/pseuds/adrianna_m_scovill
Summary: Barba and Benson go to a pumpkin patch - or, "how many prompts can I *squash* into one short fic?"





	Pumpkin to Talk About

“Why is it five thousand degrees? It’s the middle of October,” Barba griped, making a show of loosening his already-loose tie. He’d left his jacket in the car and rolled up his sleeves, but his white shirt was damp with sweat around his collar, under his arms, and down the middle of his back.

“It’s not that bad,” Benson said, although she could feel the sweat trickling down her own back and sides, and her hair was stuck to her forehead. “Who wears a suit to pick pumpkins?”

“Who picks pumpkins on a Wednesday afternoon?” he shot back, stepping over a tangle of vines that had stretched across the row in front of him. “Who picks pumpkins at _all_?” he added, glaring at her. “You know they sell these on the _sidewalk_ in the city, you don’t even need to go to a supermarket.”

“Noah wanted to pick out—”

“And guess who’s not here?”

She stopped walking and, after a couple of seconds, so did he. He turned toward her, with his jaw set and his expression full of defiance. She waited a few beats before saying, “Can I speak, now?” She saw something like chagrin flit across his features, but he quickly hid it away; he was too cranky to back down so easily. “Since he’s _sick_ , I thought it would be nice to do this _for_ him. He needs to have one painted to take to school on Friday and I won’t have time to come out here tomorrow.”

She’d been texting pictures to Noah, who was home in bed with a fever, but so far the boy had nixed every prospective pumpkin. Benson didn’t want to admit to her own irritation, because that would only encourage Barba’s poor attitude. She wanted to give the lawyer credit for even agreeing, however reluctantly, to ride along with her on this ridiculous trip out of the city, and she’d been looking forward to spending the afternoon with him as they’d both been exceptionally busy at work for the past few weeks—but the heat on their shoulders and the dirt in their shoes and the bugs buzzing in their ears had sapped the last bit of enjoyment out of their afternoon.

Barba toed a pumpkin with one expensive shoe, and she expected him to snipe about the dirt clinging to the polish. Instead, he said, “Take a picture of this one. Tell him I think it’d be a good one to take to school.”

“It’s a little big,” she said, before she could stop herself.

“They’re all a little big,” he said, shooting her a dirty look. “That’s what happens when you go to a farm, Liv. They fertilize and shit.”

She stared at him for a few seconds before a laugh bubbled past her lips. “Fertilize and shit?” she repeated, unable to stop a second laugh in spite of the glare he’d leveled at her. “You do know that’s redundant?” she asked.

He drew a breath through his nose and released it in a long-suffering sigh, and she couldn’t help it—she couldn’t keep herself from laughing at the pained, indignant expression on his heat-flushed face.

“Really?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. He wanted to smile, she could tell, but he was just so infuriatingly stubborn and crabby.

She stepped forward and took hold of his suspenders, and she saw his expression immediately soften. He was stubborn, but she knew exactly where his weaknesses lay. “You’re so grumpy,” she said, tugging lightly.

He pursed his lips in a pout, but she saw the hint of a dimple peeking from his cheek. She leaned forward and kissed him, and his hands made their way to the curves of her hips. His lips parted for her, and she pressed closer. She’d meant to kiss the slant of annoyance from his mouth, but the slightest taste of him, as always, stole her breath and brought flames of desire dancing into her stomach.

And he knew it, the insufferable bastard. She could practically feel the smugness rolling off him. She trapped his wayward tongue between her teeth and he made a sound in his throat—a mixture of surprise, humor, and desire—and his fingers dug into her waist.

She released him and broke away from his kiss, meeting his eyes. He smirked at her, but his pupils were dilated, his hands heavy on her hips, his body flush with hers.

“Still crabby?” she asked.

He narrowed his eyes. “Yes,” he said, with an upward tilt of his lips.

“Okay. I won’t let my…gourd down,” she said.

He closed his eyes, groaning, and she laughed.

“Come on, tell me how we can…squash this bad mood,” she said.

“Please stop,” he answered with an exasperated laugh. When he opened his eyes, she pursed _her_ lips into a pout. “I swear, if you weren’t so intolerably beautiful—”

“You mean gourd-geous?” she quipped, her expression lighting hopefully.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Sure,” he said, planting a quick kiss on her lips.

She sighed. “Gourd men are hard to find,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows, looking affronted. “I’m the _pun king_ ,” he said, and it was her turn to groan. He laughed. “Okay, that wasn’t the best, but what do you expect? It’s too gourd-damned hot out here.”

She grinned at him, and he smiled in return. The sun was beating down on them, the sweat trickling down their bodies and soaking into their clothes, but they stood pressed together, sharing their heat, regarding each other in silence. After a few seconds, he bent his head to kiss her again, and this time his lips were light, gentle; apologetic.

He should know that she never held his bad moods against him for long.

She saw movement from the corner of her eye and reacted reflexively, swiping at the side of his neck with the back of her hand. Her knuckles hit him harder than she’d intended, and he flinched, drawing back.

“Ow, what the—” he started, his eyes widening as he raised a hand to the side of his neck. He didn’t finish, though, because he saw the wasp buzzing in front of her face, and he scowled, batting at it. For a moment, she had an image of a kitten pawing at a fly, and she almost laughed. Her humor died abruptly when a wasp buzzed into her ear, and she flinched away, swatting at her ear.

Barba took a stumbling step backward, tugging at the front of his shirt and swearing under his breath. “Raf?” she asked, as his movements quickly grew more frantic. He yanked his shirts from his waistband and flapped the bottoms outward between the constraints of his suspenders. She stepped toward him as he started hitting himself in the chest and stomach.

She could see a red welt on his neck and realized that he’d been stung at least once.

“Fuck. Liv. Help,” he said, and she could hear actual pain—and fear—in his voice. She moved forward automatically and grabbed the front of his shirts, pulling them up to expose his stomach and several growing red marks. Two wasps darted outward, bumping into each other angrily as they escaped the confines of Barba’s clothes.

“Okay, honey, okay,” she said. He sounded like he was going to hyperventilate, and he was still swatting at his clothes. “Rafael, it’s okay,” she said. “Calm down.” She put a hand against his chest. When he met her eyes, she could see his panic, and her own heartrate sped up in response. His face was splotchy, and the red welt on the side of his neck had already doubled in size.

“Liv,” he said, grabbing at her arm.

“Okay,” she repeated, doing her best to tamp down her surge of fear. She grabbed his wrist and turned, pulling his arm over her shoulders. “Come on, let’s get back to the car,” she said. “You’re alright.”

He wasn’t, though, and she knew it. She could hear it in the uneven, labored sound of his breaths, could feel it in the way his fingers clutched desperately at her shoulder, could sense it in the cloud of fear clinging to him. They walked between the rows of pumpkins, his arm growing heavier on her back, but his steps quickly began to falter.

Help was too far away; she had to get him to the car as quickly as possible. His breaths were already dangerously shallow. She stopped and turned her back to him, yanking his arms over her shoulders. He was still standing, but there was no resistance in his body, and his arms were limp and malleable. She bent her knees, pulling his arms downward in front of herself, and straightened with him on her back. His feet dangled only a few inches from the ground, but it was enough as he hung on her back. His chin lolled heavily onto her shoulder, his breaths strained and shallow at her ear.

She was already slick with sweat, and her muscles protested his weight, but she focused on the car and started making her way as quickly as possible down the row of pumpkins. There were a few people milling about the parking area, but Benson didn’t shout for help, not yet—she needed to conserve her breath as she carried Barba across the field.

She had made it to the grass at the edge of the patch when she realized that she could no longer hear—or feel—him breathing. “Raf?” she asked. There was no response. She was panting, herself, and blinked sweat from her eyes. “Barba,” she said. People were looking around at her, now, and she called toward the nearest woman. “I need your help!” She relaxed her hold on Barba enough to let his feet slip to the ground. His legs immediately buckled, and Benson held one of his wrists as she quickly turned to keep him from collapsing all the way down and hitting his head.

He was unconscious, but she quashed her fear before it could take root. She had to stay calm. She put her fingers to the side of his throat that hadn’t been stung, but she couldn’t find a pulse. She fished her keys from her pocket and tossed them to the approaching woman.

“That car right there,” she said, pointing at her cruiser. “There’s a first aid kit in the trunk on the left side.” The woman hurried off to fetch it. Other people were gathering around, and Benson said, “Call an ambulance.” Her radio was in the car, and there was no time to waste. She tipped Barba’s head back on the grass. She didn’t know if she’d be able to get any air through his swollen throat but she had to get his heart pumping.

She braced her hands against his sternum and started chest compressions, refusing to let herself dwell on the fact that it was _Barba_ , her best friend, the man she loved more than herself, lying limp and unconscious on the ground. She’d performed CPR before, and this was no different. She couldn’t allow it to be any different. She couldn’t let the panic swallow her.

She moved to his head, pinched his nose closed, pulled his mouth open, and administered two breaths. She couldn’t see his chest rise, but she couldn’t think about that. She resumed chest compressions as the woman came running back with the first aid kit. Somewhere nearby, a man was talking to a 911 dispatcher, but Benson barely heard him. She snatched the kit from the woman’s shaky fingers and yanked it open, fumbling inside for the emergency EpiPen.

She snapped the cap off and stuck the needle into Barba’s thigh, through his dusty slacks. She held it there, forcing herself to count to ten even though every second felt like an eternity. When she pulled it out, she dropped it to the grass, rubbed briefly at his pants over the injection site, and then levered herself up over his chest to restart compressions.

“Come on, Barba,” she muttered, barely aware of the burning blur of tears in her eyes. “Come on.” She pressed against his chest, and again, swearing under her breath. She’d lost count, and she knew she was going to lose herself completely. She shook her sweaty hair from her face and moved to his head, tipping his chin further, closing his nose, breathing into his mouth.

This time, the air made it through his throat, but she refused to acknowledge the burst of relief; it was too soon for that. The epinephrine was reducing the swelling, but he still wasn’t breathing on his own. Benson moved back to his chest. Her hair was hanging over her face. Her shirt was soaked with sweat. She was panting.

“Ambulance is on the way,” a man’s voice said, and she offered a wordless sound in response.

“Come _on_ , Rafael, goddammit,” she breathed, pumping at his chest with increasing desperation. She shifted, distantly noting the bite of rocks at her knees, and bent toward his mouth.

He drew a sudden, unsteady breath that wheezed through his throat, and then he coughed weakly, turning his head to the side as he struggled to pull in another breath.

“Rafa,” she said, putting a hand on his rising chest. His eyelids fluttered open, and his eyes rolled toward her. She could sense his confusion and fear. “It’s okay,” she told him. “You’re alright. An ambulance will be here in a minute. Just breathe slow and steady, I’m right here. You’re alright.”

“Liv,” he managed.

“Shut up, you asshole,” she said, and she finally let the relief flow through her when she saw the corners of his lips turn up in a weak smile. “If you ever do anything like this again, you and I are through,” she told him.

“Okay,” he answered, the word barely audible as he looked up at her.

She brushed his hair from his forehead. “Don’t try to talk,” she said, letting out a shaky breath. She bent down and pressed her lips to his, closing her eyes as she laid her palm against his cheek. She drew a breath through her nose. “I love you, Rafael,” she whispered.

She didn’t need an answer—he was breathing, and his heart was beating, and that was enough—but he murmured: “Love you, too.”

 

*       *

 

“Are you guys coming out tonight or should we just cancel trick-or-treating this year?” Benson called toward her son’s bedroom as she paced, glancing at her watch. She didn’t want to admit that she was annoyed at having been excluded from the entire costume choosing, and donning, process. It was the first year that she’d had no say in Noah’s costume, and while she was glad that he and Barba were sharing this, it did sting just a little bit.

She shook her head. She didn’t want to ever think the word _sting_ again. Barba was fine, but after two weeks she still had difficulty closing her eyes without picturing his lifeless body sprawled on the grass. The only way she could fall asleep was to curl up against him, with her hand or cheek over his chest so she could feel the steady beat of his heart and the rise and fall of his breaths.

“We’re almost done!” Noah answered from the other side of the closed door. “Don’t come in!”

“I’m not coming in,” she grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest as she paced with a scowl on her face.

After another minute, Noah called, “Momma, you ready?”

_I’ve been ready_ , she thought but didn’t say. She erased the frown from her face and pasted on a smile, saying, “Ready!”

The door opened, and she blinked in surprise as her son stepped out of his room with a wide smile on his face. He was dressed as a bee, with a padded, black and yellow striped torso over a black turtleneck and black jeans. Black felt antennae bounced on top of his head.

He was waiting eagerly for her response, and she started: “Noah, you’re the—” The words died on her tongue when she caught sight of Barba stepping up behind the boy.

Rafael Barba.

Dressed as a pumpkin.

A fat, fluffily-padded, bright orange pumpkin.

He glared at her, daring her to laugh, but for several seconds she could do nothing but stare at him in disbelief.

“You like it, Mom?” Noah asked, and she could hear the note of uncertainty creeping into his voice, dulling his excitement, and she cursed herself.

She looked at her son, cranking up the wattage of her smile. “Of course I do!” she said, and his smile widened again. “You’re the cutest bee I’ve ever seen! Go grab your bag from the table so we can go.”

As Noah hurried past her, his antennae bouncing and his white wings flapping crazily on his back, Benson walked over to Barba. He raised his eyebrows, his lips quirking.

“Do you think this is funny?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered. She reached out and poked at the stuffing over his stomach, and he grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand up to press a kiss to her palm. “It’s okay, Liv,” he told her quietly, tugging her forward until she squished the front of his costume. “I’m fine. You know it wasn’t a big deal, I just wanted to get out of that stupid pumpkin patch and that was the easiest way to get you to carry me.”

She snorted, giving him a dirty look.

He touched his thumb to her chin, and his expression was serious. “Olivia, look at me. I’m dressed like a goddamn pumpkin. That’s how much I love you. We learned several, I’d say valuable, lessons. Always carry an EpiPen if I’m going to be traipsing through a field, always keep you around in a crisis—and this is the most important—next time I get tired, I know for a fact that you can carry me, so there won’t be any use trying to deny it. There you go,” he said when she smiled. He leaned forward to kiss her, but she had to meet him halfway because of his bulky costume.

“Guys, come _on_ ,” Noah said behind her, shifting his feet impatiently. “All the good candy’ll be _gone_.”

“I love you,” Benson told Barba, and his smile stretched into a grin. She patted his cheek.

“And it’s funny, right?” he prompted.

She laughed. “It’s a little funny,” she agreed.

“Hey, Noah,” Barba said as she drew back and took his arm. “What do you put on a hole in a pumpkin?”

Noah wrinkled his nose. “Um.”

“A pumpkin patch,” Barba said, and Benson suppressed her groan, elbowing at his padding.

Noah giggled. “What did the boy named Noah say?” he asked.

“Buzz?” Barba suggested, sounding doubtful.

“ _Beeeee_ right back I’m goin to get candy!” Noah exclaimed, running toward the door.

“Hold it,” Benson said, grinning. “Wait right outside the door for us.”

“Okay.”

Beside her, Barba was laughing. “He gets his sense of humor from you,” he told her in a low voice after Noah had stepped into the hallway.

“That’s why he’s so hilarious,” she said.

“We need to hurry so we don’t miss out on the good candy,” Barba said.

“You don’t need any more candy or next time I’ll be dragging you instead of carrying you.”

Barba laughed, squeezing her arm against his costume. “There won’t be a next time,” he said, and she pressed herself closer to his side as they stepped out of the apartment.


End file.
